


Callipygian

by ProxyOne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal has lots of sketches of Will, M/M, This was supposed to be crack, and discussions ensue, but one time he didn't, but somehow it ended up being mostly serious, hannibal is pretentious as fuck about Will's ass, it's all talking, which mostly he hides well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6947701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has a lot of sketches of Will, which he <i>normally</i> keeps safely away.  One day though, Will shows up unexpectedly and Hannibal is caught unawares, and unprepared.</p>
<p>Set at some unspecified point in season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Callipygian

**Author's Note:**

> [Fionadotter](https://twitter.com/fionadotter) on twitter made a comment wondering if there was a fic where Hannibal sees Will arriving then has to go around picking up all the nude Will drawings scattered around, and I had to write something. So here you go :D ♥

It's hardly the first time Hannibal has drawn Will. It's not even the first time he's drawn him nude, despite never having actually seen the man naked. It is, however, the first time Hannibal truly feels that he's captured that _something_ that makes Will unique. It's not perfect; no, there's plenty of time for that, but it's there, and that is the important thing.

He puts the finishing touches to the picture, touching up those well-turned calves, and signs the corner. His eyes rake over the finished, rough form, pleased with the cascading curls of dark hair over the back of Will's head, his lean, firm back and shapely buttocks.

Hannibal hasn't known Will for very long at all – it has only been a few months since he was asked to consult, and subsequently begun meeting Will for their informal conversations, but he has captured his attention in a way no one ever has before. Even Bedelia, who has always held a certain fascination for him, pales in comparison to the brightness of Will Graham's exquisite mind. A mind that, it has very quickly become clear to him, is more than adequately backed up by a perfectly divine physical form.

Smiling, Hannibal opens the harpsichord and props the drawing up as though it were sheet music. Will himself is certainly stunning enough to qualify as one of the great works of art, he muses. And, oh, how he longs to play that body like the stunningly well-tuned instrument it is.

Leaving the drawing in its place, Hannibal picks up his folder. It's a folder that he keeps tucked away, only to be brought out on days like today when the inspiration to capture that glorious form strikes. He opens it up, pulling out picture after drawing after sketch, some just of Will's face, others of his hands, his legs, his body. There are nudes and fully clothed examples, though he has begun to notice a tendency in recent weeks to attempt to capture Will's posterior more often than not.

He leaves the sketches littered about the room, a veritable shrine to the beauty of Will Graham, then leaves to begin work on his dinner. It will be soothing to return here once he has eaten, and gaze upon the multitude of images he has created in lieu of seeing the subject himself.

He works as efficiently as ever, though this time he finds himself focusing a little more than he normally would on what is waiting for him afterwards. He would be lying if he said there was nothing sexual about his interest – he is, despite what the media may say about his alter ego, just a man after all – but there is also _more_ to it than just that. He is drawn to Will in every possible manner, and that thought both intrigues him and fills him with disquiet.

He has only just sat down at his dinner table, suit jacket back on, when his doorbell chimes. That, in turn, is followed by a pounding on the door. He frowns in momentary consternation before standing to go and see who it is. On his way past the window he glances out and sees, with mild alarm, that Will's car is parked outside.

“Just a moment!” he calls out, then changes course, making his way instead over to the room containing his drawings of Will. There is no reason to believe Will will come in here, but it is still better to be safe than sorry. _That_ is a lesson he learned often in his younger years.

He has only managed to collect half of them when the door shoves open and Will enters anyway, calling out to Hannibal.

“Sorry to barge in,” he says, stomping his way through the door and into the entrance way, cold air swirling around him, “I wanted to talk to you about this case Jack has me working on. I hope you don't mind.”

Hannibal mentally curses Will's forwardness while simultaneously growing flush with anticipation at actually getting to lay eyes on him. It is an unforeseen surprise, though his timing could not be more appalling. He hurriedly collects the rest of the drawings together, sliding them back into the folder as Will enters the room, mild confusion on his face at having obviously seen Hannibal's dinner on the dining table, but no sign of the man himself. He brightens up visibly when he sees Hannibal, though, and Hannibal can't help but puff his chest a little at the reaction.

“Sorry, is this a bad time?” he begins, faltering slightly at the realisation that he has just barged into Hannibal's home without waiting for an invitation. It's endearing, Hannibal thinks, waiting a just a moment longer to enjoy Will's flustered lack of composure.

“Not at all,” he smiles. “Jack has you working a new case, does he?” He watches Will gaze around the room, preening a little more at the look of wonder he has on his face.

“Yeah,” Will answers distractedly before refocusing his attention on Hannibal. “He thinks the Ripper has struck again, but I don't think so. It doesn't feel right, but Jack isn't having any of it, so...”

Hannibal smiles softly. Will is, of course, as right as he always is. Hannibal hasn't killed anyone recently, and it pleases him to know that Will can so easily recognise his work. It's a marvellous thing, to be seen and known like this.

“Have you eaten, Will? I have extra, if you would like to sit with me. We can discuss your work afterwards.”

Will's face brightens at the invitation. Hannibal leaves him in the room to prepare a second plate, returning once he has the table set and the plate laid out. On his return, however, the pleasantly warm feeling that has been suffusing him vanishes, his stomach clenching in apprehension. Will has made his way to the harpsichord where, in his haste, Hannibal had left his final drawing, displayed as though for an audience. It most certainly has an audience now.

Will is looking at it, a hand reaching out to float over its surface. Hannibal finds himself frozen in place. This is one of those rare moments in his life where he is unable to decide on a course of action. He takes too long to decide, still hovering in the doorway when Will looks up and sees him.

“Did you draw this?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral. Hannibal has always enjoyed Will's inscrutability, his tendency to keep each and every reaction of his locked behind a wall of unpredictability, but right now Hannibal would give anything to know exactly what was going on behind those blue eyes.

“I did,” he answers, deciding to let Will take the lead on this. It's conceivable that he hasn't realised it's him – in the picture his back is turned, his face only partially exposed – though Hannibal knows that's giving Will too little credit. Still, he could potentially pass it off as a coincidence. It's not that Hannibal is ashamed of his attraction – quite the contrary. He just isn't pleased at the perceived advantage it would give Will, should that attraction not be reciprocated.

“It's good,” Will says, his voice still giving nothing away. Hannibal merely inclines his head in acknowledgement, refusing to give over any ground that he doesn't have to. The tension between them is rapidly building, however; Hannibal can see the question on the end of the tongue Will darts out between his lips. He waits, wondering if Will will ask what he wants to, or if he will swallow it down and pretend none of this happened.

“I didn't know you drew things like this,” he eventually settles on, though Hannibal can tell it's not the question that is still fighting for freedom.

“Portraits?” he responds, perhaps a little flippantly. They both know that he knows what Will is referring to, but he's not going to concede this advantage just yet.

“Portraits,” Will confirms. “Nude portraits, specifically. Or nude male portraits, that look like...” he falters for a moment, before making an admirable recovery. “Look like this,” he finishes, his shoulders rounding in on his body in a rather appealing defensive posture. But he's not threatened, not even really uncomfortable, Hannibal can see that. He can't quite tell what Will is defending himself against, but it certainly is not Hannibal.

“I have a particular admiration for the callipygian form,” he allows and is more than a little amused as he watches the faint red flush that moves its way up Will's neck to spread across his face. Oh yes, he thinks; Will most certainly knows who the portrait is of. He smiles then, delighted with this turn of events. “Come, dinner awaits us.”

Dinner itself is a quiet affair, the two of them sitting in their usual places, at right angles to one another. It doesn't escape Hannibal's attention that with a slight bit of manoeuvring, their knees would brush together. He wonders if the same thought has occurred to Will.

“Delicious as ever, Doctor Lecter,” Will says as he pushes his now empty plate away from him. It fills Hannibal with a sort of joy that he had never really known before, every time he watches Will eating his cooking. It has nothing to do with the amusement he derives from watching guests unknowingly eat his more exotic meat sources; rather, it is the pleasure of watching someone truly enjoy, and gain proper sustenance from something he has provided.

He wonders if this is what falling in love feels like.

He brushes the thought aside as he stands to collect their empty dishes. He carries them out to the kitchen and is surprised to find Will following him, already searching around for a towel. Hannibal isn't entirely sure when they both grew so comfortable with Will's presence in his house, but he has found that he likes it far more than he had ever thought he would. They work together in silence, Hannibal washing then passing the dishes over for Will to dry. It's soothing, in its own way. They finish, then Hannibal offers Will a drink. He accepts, and once poured he leads Hannibal out of the kitchen once more, re-entering the room with the drawing.

Hannibal is curious as to his motivations. There has been no move by either of them to bring up the stated reason for Will's visit, and Hannibal is left to contemplate whether Will has forgotten, been distracted, or if it was only ever a pretext. Before today he had no reason to suspect that what Will felt for him was even remotely close to what Hannibal himself felt for Will, but his reaction to the picture now gave Hannibal pause.

He watches as Will's eyes return again and again to the drawing, still sitting so carefully on its perch. Hannibal sips his drink, settling himself into an armchair as Will walks listlessly around the room, his own drink still in his hand but clearly forgotten. It is enough to break Hannibal's resolve, and he gestures towards the other armchair as he speaks.

“Please, Will. Have a seat and relax.”

Will gives one last look to the displayed portrait then flops down into the chair, glass now raised to his lips as he takes a long drink. He grimaces as though in disgust, though Hannibal knows that Will is especially fond of that particular bottle of whiskey. He is about to ask him what is on his mind when Will beats him to the mark.

“Callipygian?” he asks, an eyebrow raised in questioning amusement.

“It means -” Hannibal begins, before Will interrupts him.

“I know what it means,” he says, that delightful flush rising over his skin again. “I'm just curious how it applies to me.”

“To you?” Hannibal asks, determined to make Will drag it out of him, to have Will state exactly what he means and what he wants.

“Don't play coy with me, Doctor Lecter,” Will says, his glass now resting just over his bottom lip. “You and I both know that drawing is of me.”

“We are in my house, Will. There is no need for formality. Please, call me Hannibal.”

“Okay then, _Hannibal_ ,” Will says with a tip of his glass. “Now tell me. Is that a drawing of me?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal keeps his gaze strong and steady, despite his lack of confidence over how Will is going to react. He forces his body to relax as he watches Will, sees the variety of emotions that flit across his face, everything from shock to discomfort before finally settling on pleasure. There is a brief moment of silence, where Hannibal tries to interpret that pleasure. Is it pleasure at gaining the upper hand? Or is it the pleasure of finding a love requited? He wonders how long he'll have to wait to find out.

“You know,” Will finally says, taking another sip from his glass, “if you wanted to draw me naked, you could have just asked.”

Hannibal allows his surprise to show, just slightly. That was _not_ a response he had expected.

“Though you'll probably find the reality somewhat lacking,” Will continues with a self-deprecating laugh.

“On the contrary, Will; I suspect the reality is far beyond anything I can imagine.”

Will's face freezes for a moment before flushing scarlet this time, and he finally looks away from Hannibal.

Hannibal takes another sip from his own drink, and ponders what new and interesting artworks he can create.


End file.
